


No Returns Without a Receipt

by bat (bateroo)



Category: Constantine (2005)
Genre: Complete, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Short One Shot, Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-05
Updated: 2012-07-05
Packaged: 2019-11-15 13:16:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18074096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bateroo/pseuds/bat
Summary: John's exits through the gift shop. Set before the events of the 2005 film.





	No Returns Without a Receipt

There was only one way to put a stop to this.  
  
Exsanguination.  
  
God wasn't listening, or didn't have the inclination to listen. John wasn't sure which was the case but it wouldn't matter. If this was supposed to be some gift He had given him, well, he wanted to return it. God just wasn't into returns, apparently; especially if you didn't have the receipt.  
  
Seeing the half-breeds, the angels and demons alike, walking among humanity, it wasn't a "gift". It was a punishment. All his young life he couldn't go anywhere without bumping into one. The demons, they loved it. Loved to scare the beejezus out of him, to make him scream and cry and piss his pants in fright.  
  
The angels, well, they were angels. They usually only smiled at him, an expression of encouragement and peace on their faces. John hated that more then being scared by the demons.  
  
Faith is an act of belief without seeing. Well, he could fucking _see_. He didn't have to have faith, he didn't have to _believe_. They were right there. In front of his _eyes_.  
  
His parents, they couldn't see. And because they could not explain or understand what was happening to their son, they tried to cure him. To "make it better". To make it _stop_.  
  
Therapy, medications, committing him to the psych ward for weeks at a time. Electroshock therapy that left him weak and his muscles aching. One time it had given him a violent seizure. He felt like his thoughts and mind weren't his own after those "treatments".  
  
But still, the demons and angels were there, sometimes right in the hospital with him.  
  
John was tired, more tired than any fifteen year old had a right to be. What was life worth living if you couldn't be "normal", spend your waking moments doing simple things, being happy, and enjoying being alive?  
  
The bite of the razor blade stung as it slipped through the thin skin of his left wrist like a hot knife through butter. The blood began to flow immediately, dripping first onto the grungy pattern of the vinyl tiles that covered the floor of the bathroom, then collecting into a larger pool.  
  
His second wrist, it was a lot more difficult then the first. The blood loss was already starting to affect him. John had to concentrate more but eventually, the second bloody gash was finished.  
  
John wasn't stupid. He had sliced up the _lengths_ of his arms, not across.  
  
This job was going to be thorough. He wasn't coming back.


End file.
